


You Were Christened a Feral Child

by Predaking



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-14 00:58:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11772141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Predaking/pseuds/Predaking
Summary: Vos is odd. Acts like a cat, never spoken a word of Neocybex in his life, violently loyal to the Decepticon cause. But why?The life that came before Vos of the DJD is a wild one, something not a lot of people could guess. But Tarn and Megatron both got him through it, and it only makes his end all the more tragic.(Vos's backstory as I see it)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> fucke i finally got this down on paper
> 
> alright so this is gonna be a two-shot. or a three-shot depending on how long chapter two gets? first chapter is the backstory before megatron which im not gonna spoil here, and the second chapter is gonna be the backstory with megatron and maybe eventually the djd. or if it goes three shot we'll see what happens.
> 
> i just bullshitted names for a bunch of characters in thsi because i needed throwaway characters for random stuff here so dont. worry too much about them. if the names are actual names of transformers then its a coincidence i just used a name generator site
> 
> trying to word this to avoid spoilers but at the end of uh. the first part of this whole thing hopefully you'll understand when you get there vos is mentally about 8years old in human terms
> 
> by the end of this chapter he's mentally about 15years old in human terms, but still acts mentally 8 because his growth is stunted

The Primal Hill didn’t receive much in terms of outsiders.

It was a secluded neoprimalist temple, set deep in the middle of nowhere, a home for those who had willingly dedicated their life to Primus in all ways. In their religious beliefs, it was only here that they could have unmuddled contact with their Creator. The buzz and hum and harshness of intruders from the cities didn’t exist out here. Only stillness and peace.

You could imagine their surprise when a sparkling showed up on their doorstep.

It hadn’t fully cooled, hadn’t taken it’s shape, and yet here it was. Dropped carelessly on their front step. In this stage it was nothing more than a white blob of protomatter. No eyes, no discerning features, just soft white plating. Oh, well there was one feature, a huge dent in it’s side from being dropped on the ground. That was likely to cause issues.

Hurriedly the priest, Gleam, took the little one in. Protecting it from any more damage than what it had already taken. The nuns of the temple spoke in hushed whispers as they watched him tightly shut the door and hurry to the altar where the lighting was the best.

Where had it come from? Why had it been left? Would it live?

Gleam held him out over the altar to let the nuns take a look. The mumbles only increased as some features started to take shape. Two eyes blinked open, tiny red dots, and long cat-ear shaped finials poked up from his head. A small chirruping sound escaping the child.

// _Destine.//_  Gleam said at last, pulling the sparkling back to cradle against his chest, hoping the sound of his own sparkpulse would soothe him. // _We shall call him Destine.//_

* * *

In a few days Destine had taken his final shape. The temple was correct in assuming the dent to his side in his delicate sparkling stages would cause issues. The medics of the order had to install an intake port on his throat, as he never formed any sort of mouth, and would otherwise starve. It also gave his face an oddly blank look. One of his eyes was much bigger than the other, making his face lopsided.

A thing that took the longest for anyone to figure out was why he was always hunched over to some degree. He never stood straight, and when nuns would gently take him under the arms to try and straighten him up he just whimpered and cried. It was found out that his spinal column was malformed, and standing straight put him in severe pain. The medics quickly fitted him with a back brace in hopes to correct it, but he still ached to some degree and had to lean over and sit down quite often.

To most’s surprise, Destine had taken the shape of a gunformer. Small, scrawny, easily handled, a gun barrel strapped to his back. A sniper rifle, to be exact. The Primal Hill wasn’t interested in violence, and suspected Destine never would be either, so they never actually told him about his alt mode.

They loved him despite his medical issues and his alt mode, and treated him as if he was their own. They gave him a new paint job, royal purple, silver, and gold. The colors of a prized possession. Though they never treated him as if he was a object to be owned. There was no such thing as disposables here, and all were welcomed by Primus. For Primus gave them their shape.

They told him they were colors that meant something, and that he was special, and that Primus loved him. He seemed happy with that, grinning the only way he could, squinting his eyes in the way he saw Gleam’s eyes crease up when he smiled.

For 800 years he lived here. He was happy! Beyond happy! They kept him safe and told him stories, cuddled him and were patient with him. He was still mentally developing all throughout this time, and they always took time out of their day to teach him of the world, answering his questions no matter how silly. They taught him Primal Vernacular, as that was the language spoken by the temple, but never Neocybex. They expected him to stay with the temple for most his life, and thought he would never need to know the other language. Primal Vernacular was the language of Primus, after all.

Destine thought he would be here forever, as his child-like mind didn’t know anything else. Couldn’t imagine anything better.

He was wrong, oh how dearly he was wrong.

800 years after Destine’s arrival, the temple was set on fire. It was never investigated, and the Primal Hill was forgotten by history. The survivors suspected foul play, but they moved in with their brothers in another temple, and were never allowed to speak out about it.

As for Destine, seeing his home go up in flames was the closest thing to Hell he’d ever experienced in his short life. He bolted into the wilderness, never to be heard from again. The residence mourned for him, thinking he had perished. He was so young, they said. Didn’t deserve it.

As previously stated, the Primal Hill was far out from any form of society. Home for him became the wilds.

(Years later, Gleam’s name made the List. Vos didn’t recognize it, and Gleam didn’t recognize him. What a cruelty this world brings.)

* * *

Years past, he didn’t remember his name. Everything of the temple was a blur. His life became a cycle of hunting glitchmice and other mechafauna for sport and for their energon, and finding a safe space to sleep nightly. He didn’t have a traditional mouth (why was that? Why didn’t he have a mouth?) but his claws got him around just fine. It was strange though, he didn’t look anything like his carrier, a wild felenoid that had heard the cries of a distressed youngling and, having recently lost her litter, took him in as her own. She didn’t have a name, and she didn’t speak, but neither did he really.

He learned the soft chirps, meows, and purrs of his carrier. That became his language.

His mouth situation was a workaround, and his carrier never could figure out why he walked so stiffly (the brace was never able to be properly taken off), but he was sly and lithe and his claws retracted into his fingers like any other felenoid, so he was right at home with her. She was a wonderful carrier, curling up with him when he cried, teaching him how to hunt, showing him how he could get energon into his tanks by dipping his paw into the puddle and dripping it into his intake. She loved her weird kitten, and he came to believe she was his birth mother.

But as all things in his life had gone so far, she was ripped away from him. She never saw those turbofoxes coming, ripped to pieces by the vicious dogs. Perhaps it was for the best he never saw what really happened to her.

He chirped and cried for her for days, and then weeks. He always brought back prey for her to snack on if she returned. She’d been gone for so long, she’d be hungry when she got back.

But she never came back. The bodies went cold, the energon dried up before it was eaten.

Though it hurt him, he knew he had to move on. He cried at the thought she had abandoned him, but he moved on, sparkbroken and hurt. He survived.

Every day he took a different nesting place for when he settled down to recharge. Never found one that he was comfortable with. And he couldn’t go back to his carrier’s den, it just brought back too many memories. Little did he know that with each passing day he got closer and closer to modern society.

Imagine his shock, a mech that had been nothing but isolated for a total of 3 million years, finding a bustling metropolis after trying to take down a glitch rat. He cautiously tried to explore this strange place; crawling across the streets on all fours, sniffing everything he found. The streets were scary he soon learned, grounders yelling at him to get out of the road, some not even bothering and nearly running him over.

He panicked when he realized he couldn’t understand the strange angry noises these new comers made.

He took to staying in back alleys, away from the harsh lights, away from the “wheeled monsters” as he had started to think of them as. He hated them, hated how they just barked at him and barked even more when he started to cry. Instinctively clicking for his carrier even though he knew she was long gone.

In the back alleys he found some comfort. There were other felenoids here, though they were much much smaller than his carrier. But their mannerisms were the same, and their body shape was the same. They didn’t take to him as much as his carrier had. But he hung around them anyway and learned.

Things he learned, the weird yelling mechs hated most the felenoids. Saw them as nuisance. If you saw one coming toward you, run as quickly as you could. Some were kind, and left little plates of food for them, though he was always chased away from those. None of the kind mechs seemed to like him, and he didn’t know why.

The most important thing he learned was that energon was thrown into the metal boxes behind buildings. You had to dig for them, but they were there. In convenient little cubes and sticks, easier for him to swallow. Though he did wonder why it was put together like this.

He didn’t learn about the danger in digging through trash, and it was a lesson that would cost him many things. As he was scrounging for food, legs dangling out the end, paws clawing up pieces of scrap metal to try and get to the juicy bits, he didn’t hear the loud footsteps. He didn’t feel the looming presence until the lid was slammed onto his back.

He screeched and howled, going ramrod stiff as the extremely damaged back brace dug pins and needles into his flanks. The attacker didn’t seem satisfied with this, and slammed down on him again, that only caused him to cry out more, scrambling to try and get away.

“Fucking disposable can’t learn their place.” came the grumble, the lid was finally lifted, energon was leaking out of his sides, and he was crying silently. The scruff of his neck was grabbed, and he was hoisted into the air.

“You, escaped your owner? Bet you got a mighty fine prize on your head. What’s your name?” The mech grumbled, glaring him down.

He whimpered, squeaked, squirming, he didn’t know what was going on, or what this mech was saying to him. Though he wanted something, he couldn’t tell what though.

An ancient memory dug itself up, so ancient he didn’t know why he knew it. He tried to communicate back to the scary mech.

// _Please...don’t hurt.//_

That shocked the scary mech, a look of surprise crossing his features. “Who taught a disposable Primal of all fuckin things?” And then he took a little bit of a closer look, the muddy paint job, clearly hadn’t been washed in forever, the miserable state of his back. “You..aren’t owned, are ya?”

He didn’t do anything but give another plea. _//Please...let go...//_

“You don’t fuckin know a thing I’m sayin, do ya? Owner must’ve been a controlling guy..” He rubbed his chin. Though the damage was bad, it was fixable. Paint could be cleaned up. “‘Spose I could make a quick buck. Use you for stock…”

But it was hard to beat the wild child out of someone once they had learned it, a fact many mechs soon learned.

* * *

Doublepoint turned out to be the name of the mech, not that the gun former knew that. He hummed as he pulled out a roll of stickers that the gunformer couldn’t read, slapping one across his chest along with all the other guns lined up on the desk next to him. The sticker read “FOR STOCK” in sloppy chicken scratch handwriting. Doublepoint was an arms dealer, and living rifles were a rare commodity these days.

He threatened the little mech into keeping still, and went to work stocking his shelves with the used guns that had been sold to him. Looking them over for damage, calculating how much he could ask for them, etc. Doing it in order, the gunformer would be last. He gave greetings to the mech that wandered into the shop, but didn’t look up from his work. The customer immediately took interest on what was on the counter, leaning over to examine the gun former.

“Forestock…?” He mumbled, barely making out what was on the sticker. Assuming it was a name. “What are you asking for him?”

Doublepoint looked up from his work. He had planned to fix up the now unfortunately named Forestock, (Doublepoint kind of thought it was a funny joke, so he went with it) and figuring out what model of rifle he was before putting him out on the shelves but...if someone was willing to buy right off the bat, he could pay for his repairs.

“A thousand credits, used model, needs a cleanup and a fixup. But nothin’ I can’t do. Very obedient.” He grinned, picking up Forestock, pressing down on a pressure point that would forcibly get him to transform. Forestock whined at the pain, and whined more at the new sensation that was changing shape. He didn’t know he could do that.

Doublepoint looked over and quickly assessed the damage to the gun mode itself discreetly, so he could remember what parts to get later. Sniper rifle, targeting scope broken, systems never properly upgraded. Thousand credits for this was way too much, but he continued with his con.

“As you can see, beaten up, nothin’ I can’t fix though, again. You interested?”

The buyer, a helicopter named Broadspin, inspected the rifle with a tight-lipped frown. “You say that’s all that’s wrong with him? Repair work?”

Doublepoint bit his glossa. “Eh...that and another thing, doesn’t speak Neocybex. Only Primal Vernacular. Glitch in the factory fucked up his coding, he has a translator though, so he can understand ya’ just fine. Not like you’re gonna be striken’ up a conversation with him, eh?” Doublepoint mentally added translator to his to-get list.

Broadspin hummed, tapping his pede to mull over the offer. Wasn’t bad, he needed a rifle, and gun formers were always better than lifeless guns. They could target things themselves as well as aid the one wielding them. New ones went upwards for 3,000 credits. So a thousand wasn’t bad.

“I’ll take him if you have him fixed by tonight.”

“That I can do, pleasure doin’ business with ya.”

Forestock was dropped to the ground with a clatter, not knowing how to transform back yet. Doublepoint didn’t seem to care, leading Broadspin over to the counter to take his credits. When Forestock finally figured out how to get back to his root mode, Doublepoint had returned, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him to the back room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ALRIGHT SO  
> i made it in two chaps everyone
> 
> okay a little bit more explaination herreee i gyuess
> 
> i'm ignoring. scientist vos thing here bc i cant get it to work in Scatman's World so jot that down
> 
> also vos having back problems is a headcanon bc he's hunched over all the time and i, a person w backproblems, but like this entire fic is a headcanon so who cares folks
> 
> i dont think i have anything else i need to clarify? enjoy my hell that ended up at 5k fuckign words

Broadspin brought Forestock home in a little crate. There was only enough room for him to curl up in a tight ball, staring nervously out the thin bars at the front. Forestock could understand Broadspin now, and though he couldn’t understand how this sudden change happened, he wasn’t going to question it.

Broadspin set the crate on the floor once they had entered his apartment, opening the door at the front for Forestock to get out of it; Forestock refused to budge for the first few minutes, and Broadspin grunted in confusion. He left Forestock to himself for a bit, preparing a cube of low-grade for his new rifle, setting the cube on the floor in front of the crate, prompting Forestock to finally amble out.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, picking up the cube delicately, and dipped his outstretched claws into the fuel. Tilting his head back, opening up the intake on his throat, and letting the liquid drip into it. Broadspin stared at him in confusion.

“What are you doing?”

Forestock froze up, staring at Broadspin with wide eyes and a soft chirrup. He had spoken to Doublepoint out of some fear trigger. Now that he wasn’t in immediate danger, he seemed to have forgotten how.

Broadspin sighed. “Don’t know why I asked...you do you, I guess.”

Broadspin got up and left the room, leaving Forestock to his own devices.

Soon enough, Broadspin got suspicious of his new disposable’s behaviour. For one, Forestock didn’t speak. Not even the Primal Vernacular he’d been warned about. The most noise he’d ever get out of him was chirps and whines. But never any words, and for the most part Forestock was silent. Forestock also walked on all fours, and his long pedes enabled him to position his legs to be able to walk on the tips, giving him the appearance of a mechanimal. He hid whenever Broadspin came home, shied away from all touches, and didn’t respond to any orders. Just blankly stared.

Broadspin came to realize he’d been scammed. This weird mech was the exact opposite of the obedient worker he’d been promised. This mech was pissy, lashed out with those deadly little claws all too often, and for the most part Broadspin could never actually find him because he was always hidden.

Broadspin had no clue where he came from, but he was probably abandoned for the exact same reasons that Broadspin was selling him for. After a year of putting up with Forestock, Broadspin put up an ad online. He just wanted his money back. Forestock was bought within the week.

When the new owner came over, Forestock was curled up on the couch. Using his claws to rip up the piece of furniture bit by bit. The door was knocked on, and Broadspin went over to open it, Forestock looked over in the direction curiously. Wasn’t often they got visitors.

Broadspin spoke to the newcomer in a hushed voice, leading him into another room in hopes to be out of earshot of Forestock.

“Gotta be honest, thing’s nuts. Kind of creepy. Doesn’t talk or anything. Was told he only speaks Primal Vernacular but like, again I’ve never heard him talk.”

“Sounds perfect, won’t be annoying and in my way then.”

Forestock had dozed off when he was grabbed roughly under the arms and shoved into the carrier again. He yowled, banging his head against the bars, hissing and spitting up at the new owner. Once he made the connection he was being hauled out the door, his sounds turned to begging cries. Meows and chirps in Broadspin’s direction. However, he was deaf to his cries, counting up his credits and closing the door behind him.

* * *

The new mech was named Stormrunner.

Stormrunner was a lot less gentle than Broadspin had been. Forestock had a mild dislike of Broadspin, but at least he wasn’t terrified of him like he was of Stormrunner. Forestock’s carrier was dropped to the floor, jostling the tiny mech inside, and he screeched out his protests. The carrier was kicked. “Shut UP!”

Forestock fell silent, stewing with hatred.

The carrier was opened, and a hand was reached in to drag him out. Oh no no no, as IF he was going to be manhandled like an object. He made his displeasure known, sinking his claws into Stormrunner’s hand. Stormrunner yelped, yanking his hand out and shaking it off.

“Why you little-”

The hand was shoved back in again, grabbing Forestock by his throat, yanking him out and slamming him against the wall. Out of some coincidence, this owner seemed to know about his bad back, as the other hand went down to apply pressure there. Forestock hissed and squirmed, tears bubbling up in his eyes.

“That shit might’ve flown with Broadspin, not gonna fly with me. Ya got it?”

Forestock nodded stiffly, hiccups escaping his vocalizer.

He was released, and fell to the ground harshly. Stormrunner kicked him once in the back to knock him onto his face before walking out. Forestock would lay there curled up and shivering for the rest of the day.

Forestock’s time with Stormrunner was miserable. He was starved, hit, kicked, and screamed at for nothing. He was always hungry, always tired, and just wanted to curl up and die. It would be better than living here. He was too terrified of the consequences to try and escape. He cried himself to sleep daily.

Stormrunner was weird with him, always picking him up, pushing on the pressure point that would make him transform, and just pointing it out the window. He never shot anything, just twitched his finger nervously, glaring through the targeting scope. And one day he actually did do something, just one shot, and Forestock was too dazed from hunger to process what was going on.

The apartment was raided the next day, after four decades of living with Stormrunner. Forestock didn’t know what was happening. Stormrunner was tackled to the ground, and Forestock was picked up and shoved in another cage and hauled away. In the back of his mind, even through the panic of the situation, he was happy about this.

(Later, Vos would find out Stormrunner had used him to assassinate a senator. Then again, not like Vos could feel superior to him for this.)

* * *

Forestock was taken away again, into custody after Stormrunner was arrested. He was kept in a tiny jail cell for about a month. Occasionally being taken out, and some mechs would put him in a glass room and ask him questions. He didn’t know the answer to any of them, just staring at the officers in confusion. He was given energon as it was clear he was severely malnourished. But he still wasn’t able to give them any info.

They never got anything out of him, and he still ate his energon by dipping his fingers in it. They eventually assumed he was crazy, and dropped the interrogations. He was auctioned off and bought for 100 credits by a bot named Flinch.

Flinch was fairly kind, and explained to Forestock he was only going to be there for a short while. He said he privately worked to get disposables into nicer homes, and Forestock was part of this. (“What’s a disposable?” Forestock thought, but didn’t vocalize. He still wasn’t quite sure why he was being traded off like an object.)

Flinch respected his boundaries, fed him regularly, talked softly to him when he flinched away from his hand. Forestock liked Flinch. He’d lay in his lap and purr, climb on the couch and rub his head on him while he was resting, different ways to show his appreciation. It was what his carrier did for him, and he assumed Flinch would appreciate it.

While Flinch found the behaviours odd, he didn’t ever reprimand Forestock for it. Just letting it happen. After all, he had been told at the auction that Forestock wasn’t all there in the head. This was probably to be expected.

As told, Forestock was only with Flinch for a few months. Flinch explained to Forestock he was going to a new owner, and that this one would be much better than Stormrunner had been. The new owner was a pretty femme named Melody. Forestock was immediately anxious around Melody, the mech gave him an odd vibe he couldn’t place. A dislike that only solidified when Melody picked him up under his arms, holding him to face level and squeaking at him in a baby voice.

“And aren’t you just the cutest thing!” She said, smiling much too wide. Forestock just stared at her, recalling a lesson from his carrier about protecting his eyes. Squinting them enough to protect them, but not enough he couldn’t get a clear view of Melody.

Melody went on and on about how well she was going to treat Forestock. Flinch thought he had made the right choice when he finalized the decision to hand over Forestock to her care.

He was wrong, but Forestock never blamed him. Flinch couldn’t have known.

* * *

Melody treated Forestock like a prized pet, not a person. Even went so far as to put a little pink collar with a bell on it on him, and feed him out of a bowl. To anyone else completely humiliating, though besides the collar, Forestock kind of appreciated the bowl food treatment. It meant he could eat off the floor, as he did in the wild. (He missed the wild.)

Melody was kind at first but overbearing. Cuddling him and cooing and petting him, not doing anything but remarking on how cute he was when he meowed in protest and squirmed. Melody just took it as cute little noises, not sounds of discomfort, smooshing his cheeks and snuggling him more.

Melody did have a snapping point, and it was reached far too quickly. For example, if Forestock knocked something over and broke it, or maybe dug his claws into Melody just a little too hard. Melody would completely flip out. Yelling and screaming and kicking him in the gut until he meowed softly again, and then she’d coo a “Awhh I can’t stay mad at you.” And go right back to manhandling him into a hug.

Forestock learned to fear Melody, and that only fueled him wanting to defend himself. He guessed he scratched at Melody one too many times, because one day he found himself being hauled to the medic even though nothing was wrong with him.

Melody grabbed his wrist, squishing the fingertip to show the medic. Forestock struggled to get free, which Melody ignored. The squeezing caused his claw to poke out. “These things, I want them gone.”

It took him a minute to process what he just heard, but after realizing what was happening, Forestock only struggled more. Had they not been in public, Melody probably would’ve hit him for that.

The medic nodded, poking at the padded underside of Forestock’s fingertip. “That should be a simple procedure. Won’t take too long, we’ll have to sedate him for it, he’ll just struggle.”

Forestock screeched, kicking and struggling. No no no! He needed his claws! He’d be good, he promised! The medic mumbled something as he pushed Forestock to the berth, climbing on top of his back to prevent him from moving as a needle was pressed into his neck cabling. His vision swam before going black.

When he awoke, he was groggy and completely out of it. His hands hurt. He felt some sort of lingering danger in the room he was in. He tried to click his claws out to defend himself. Nothing happened. Forestock panicked, trying again. Nothing. Tears welled up in his eyes, kneading his paw-pads against the table to try and force the claws out. In his mind, he knew they were gone. But he didn’t want to believe it.

Melody brought Forestock home shortly after, but everything was a blur to him as he just stared at his mutilated hands. The slits on his finger tips blown wide from having to be cut open, the innards exposed to the elements. It bled from time to time. Not that Melody cared, she had gotten her wish. Forestock calmed down considerably, never acted out, just laid in his berth and sulked.

Not because he wanted to behave now, because he felt life was no longer worth living. He couldn’t return home now. He had no teeth, he had always used his claws to hunt and defend. They were his everything, and they were gone. He was stuck as a sadistic mech’s cute little pet forever.

Melody offered him treats and he refused them. He hung limp when Melody picked him up for cuddles, suffocating and squeezing him now that he wouldn’t resist. Forestock hoped Melody would hug him so hard he’d rip in half. Forestock lost track of the time he spent with Melody, though he guessed it had been a hundred or so years.

Eventually Melody got bored of him, and he was given away to another mech. Who after some time gave him away to another mech, and that one gave him up as well. And so on, and so forth. Forestock didn’t remember their names, their faces, how they treated him. He didn’t care, he was too caught up in his cloud of misery. He passed around between 40 owners in the span of 300 years. Nobody wanted him, all raising their various complains. He was too aloof, too sullen, too pissy.

Then, he was handed off one last time. This owner he remembered.

* * *

Megatron wasn’t one to buy disposable mechs. It went against his entire philosophy. The practice was barbaric. Which is why he didn’t know why he was browsing the website where people put their unwanted ones up for sale. He got very little free time as a miner, he shouldn’t be wasting it on such things.

All the ads were the same. Mechs with soulless eyes, polished and posed to look pretty with some cheery tagline about “works great but needs a new home!”. But one did catch his eye, this one very different from the rest. Under the firearms section, a rifle dangling from and off-screen mech’s grip. He looked more dead inside than the rest. The tagline wasn’t cutesy at all.

“Free to whoever wants him. Piece of shit doesn’t do anything.”

Megatron’s mind was quickly made.

“- Megatron1: Do you still have the rifle?  
\- xXxpussylicker_69xXx: nobody's offered yet lol  
\- xXxpussylicker_69xXx: yea he’s here you want him  
\- Megatron1: That would be my reason for contacting you, yes.  
\- xXxpussylicker_69xXx: you can have him  
\- xXxpussylicker_69xXx: come by tonight if you can  
\- xXxpussylicker_69xXx: no rush tho lol not like ppl are lining up for him  
\- Megatron1: Can I get an address?”

As soon as Megatron received the final message of the location, he was on his way over. The apartment complex was filthy, and he banged on the grubby apartment door. He was greeted by an orange mech. Something was dropped into his arms, Megatron had to stumble so it wouldn’t fall, not at all expecting that.

“His name is supposed to be Forestock, doesn’t respond to it. Good luck making him useful.”

The door was slammed in his face before Megatron could get a word out. With that unable to be brought up again, he turned his attention to Forestock. The rifle was so limp Megatron thought maybe he’d been dumped a dead body as a very evil joke. It honestly wouldn’t be the worst thing he’d ever heard of someone doing. He cradled the little one to his chest, pressing his audial against his chest in hopes of hearing something. The sound of a sparkpulse and standby fans greeted him.

Megatron sighed in relief, wrapping up Forestock more in his arms and making the trek back to his home. He kept checking on Forestock as he walked, making sure he wasn’t jostled too much, that he was comfortable, and he wasn’t making any noises that could be taken as painful. Forestock didn’t make any noise, at all. He didn’t do...anything. Megatron wondered what was going on. The mech was alive, that much was for sure. Was he dying? Was he in pain?

When Megatron finally got back home, he kicked the door open and gently placed Forestock on his berth. He gathered up an oil covered tarp and wrapped the scrawny frame in it carefully.

“Are you comfortable?” Megatron asked, getting on his knees to be at eye-level with the mech. Forestock, as usual, didn’t say a word. Megatron didn’t expect him to. He did made a noise that...kind of sounded like a meow. Well, weird. But it was the first thing he’d said all night, so Megatron would take it.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But please don’t be afraid to ask for anything. I’m not here to hurt you.” Megatron continued, hesitating slightly before reaching out and running his fingers down Forestock’s head in a motion he hoped was soothing. Forestock squinted his eyes such, flinching away from the touch with another feline sound.

Megatron decided to give up for the night, shutting off the lights, nestling himself on the floor as to not disturb Forestock (poor mech probably needed the rest more than he did) and slipping into recharge. Tomorrow would be better, or at least he hoped.

* * *

Forestock hadn’t moved from his spot on the berth when Megatron awoke again. He had shifted, though. Instead of being sprawled out limply, curled up in a tight ball under the tarp. Even in recharge he looked tense, the position he had taken designed to protect himself, while also being able to jump to his pedes and run on a moment’s notice. Finials pointed forward like ears listening for sounds, fingers twitching non stop.

Megatron watched this display for only a few seconds before starting his morning routine. He got two cubes of energon, one he sat on the berth next to Forestock, the other on the nightstand for himself. Forestock was awake, though he was trying to pretend not to be. Megatron had seen him cracking open his optic to look at Megatron, thinking he wouldn’t be seen if he shut it again as soon as Megatron turned around. Forestock ignored the offering of energon.

Megatron let out a deep sigh, gently pushing Forestock into a sitting position, maneuvering his arms so his hands laid in his lap, and pressing the cube into them.

“Eat.”

Forestock just stared at the cube, not daring to look at Megatron. The memories of Stormrunner came flooding back to him, and he decided it would be for the best to obey the orders he was given. So he dipped his fingers in the warm liquid, hissing in pain (the surgery on his hands was botched, not that any of his dozens of owners had taken notice or cared).

Megatron just stared at the display with an odd look. “That’s not how you eat.” He said, furrowing his brows together. Forestock froze up, flinging his wrist for the drops of energon to fly off his hand before dropping the appendage back into his lap.

For the first time in forever, the little mech spoke. _//Sorry.//_

Well that hadn’t been mentioned to him in the ad, luckily he understood the language. A thing Terminus had taught him in his spare time. Megatron sat down on his knees again, cupping his own hands around Forestock’s. “Don’t be sorry, it’s easier if you do it like this.”

Forestock was startled by the kind treatment, flipping his head up to face Megatron fully. Nobody had talked to him, like actually had a conversation with him, not just barking orders in such a long time. He continued to stare as Megatron was trying to instruct him on how to drink from a glass.

“Now you try.” Megatron said, moving Forestock’s arms for him so the edge of the cube was pressed against his neck intake.

Forestock was broken out of the trance by that feeling, reflexively opening his intake port and letting Megatron guide him to tilt the cube forward. He was right, this was easier! And much less of a mess. Megatron eventually let go of his hands, smiling as Forestock gulped it down quickly.

“Did you first owner teach you to drink it like that?” Megatron asked. A weird mech teaching his disposable to eat like that to limit fuel consumption wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility, he decided.

_//Carrier.//_

Not an answer he was expecting. Disposables didn’t...have carriers. None of them. He pressed further, remaining nonchalant. “What happened to your carrier?”

Forestock paused, seeming upset by the question. _//Left den...never back...//_

And that raised even _FURTHER_ questions. Megatron wasn’t getting any clear picture here. Was den a code word? Was his early life so terrible his home could be called a den?

“I see...do you want to tell me about them?”

Forestock perked up just slightly, giving a happy ‘mmrp’ noise. _//She nice. Warm. Taught hunt. Forestock like hunt. Glitch mice tasty.//_

Oh. _Oooh._

Megatron mentally slapped himself in the face. Now everything was falling into place. The cat noises, broken speech, weird mannerisms, using his hand to drink. (Didn’t explain the language, but that mystery would never be solved. Forestock had forgotten all about the temple.) Cybertronians raised by mechanimals were extremely rare, but not entirely unheard of. Was that why he was so depressed? Did he miss being outside? Must have been a huge change to go from being a wild animal to someone’s toy. He could certainly be rehabilitated to a normal functioning mech, but Megatron didn’t know how long Forestock had been left to incompetent owners, and how much damage would have to be reversed on top of having to be taught basic Cybertronian knowledge and behaviour.

Megatron hadn’t been expecting to receive such a huge project, but he knew if he gave Forestock out again he’d just be passed around the trades endlessly. Nobody wanted a disposable who wouldn’t obey orders, and Forestock was never taught anything but how to survive.

“We...have a lot to talk about.” Megatron concluded, patting Forestock on the shoulder.

* * *

When Megatron got home from the mines he started teaching Forestock a few basics. First things first, he explained to Forestock that his “carrier” wasn’t the real thing. He showed him some images of felenoids on a datapad, and let Forestock look in the mirror to see the difference. He explained that his real creators had probably abandoned him, and the felenoid was simply kind enough to take him in. (Megatron left out that likely he didn’t have any “real creators”. But it was much too early in the lessons to tell him about forged vs cold construction, and that carrier/sire couples were outdated, never happened anymore.) Though Forestock did have some feline traits in appearance, he wasn’t a felenoid.

Forestock sulked about this info for four days, on and off crying the whole time.

Megatron decided he was going to have to be more gentle with his lessons from here on out.

It was easier to correct Forestock’s broken Primal Vernacular than to try and teach him Neocybex. It didn’t take too long for him to be speaking fluently instead of choppy caveman speak. When he attempted to teach Forestock Neocybex, he got so frustrated with it he broke the datapad in half. That was the end of their Neocybex lessons.

Forestock would never unlearn his cat-like mannerism, a fact Megatron had learned to accept. He still meowed and purred and laid in a ball, and walked on all fours. Well, gingerly. Very gingerly. It took Megatron a little bit to catch on something was wrong with his hands.

The day Megatron finally investigated it, Forestock was huddled up in a corner with the same oil-stained tarp as he had been wrapped in on his first night there. He’d grown attached to it, and refused to recharge without it. Megatron was a bulky mech, he didn’t need blankets anyway. Forestock was drawing a picture, Megatron kneeled down and reached forward to take his hand, lifting it up to the light. Forestock whined and tried to yank it away, Megatron quietly shushed him.

Megatron was surprised it took him so long to notice, then again Forestock did hide his hands a lot. The tops were rusted out, coated in layers upon layers of dried crusty energon, there were wide holes at the top, and slices cut around said holes from the inside. The whole innard was rusted out and looked extremely painful.

“When did this happen?” Megatron asked, releasing Forestock, watching as he tucked his hand against his chest.

 _//One of my owners. I used to have claws, and she took them from me.//_ Forestock mumbled, getting upset at the memory.

Megatron grimaced. Ripping away a mech’s only form of defense. Forestock was skinny and easily overpowered, those claws were probably the only thing he had going for him as to protect himself. He did nod in understanding, getting up and returning shortly with a medical kit. He could at least get him cleaned up a little, and stop that terrible rust infection.

“Do you miss your claws?”

Forestock hesitated, but eventually nodded. _//I miss them a lot.//_

Megatron thought it over in his head. Likely it would be an easy fix and not too expensive. “I’ll help you get them back.” He said.

That seemed to make Forestock happy.

* * *

Forestock stayed with Megatron for a long time. He brightened up significantly once his claws were replaced. Always happily laying in Meagatron’s lap and purring. Megatron had taken to scratching him behind his pointed finials, a thing he seemed to like. Forestock would get up in the berth when Megatron was asleep, curling up on his chest.

Megatron kept teaching him everything he could. A lot of it was lost on Forestock, especially when Megatron started talking about his poetry. But he listened either way, he liked it when Megatron read to him.

Megatron started talking to him about revolution, of people like Forestock being treated better. Forestock still didn’t completely understand it, as the concept of disposables and him being one still hadn’t gotten through his head at this point. But he did like the sound of it. People like Stormrunner and Melody being put down for what they did to him, and any others like him.

Before the war officially arose, Megatron introduced Forestock to a bot named Glitch. A good friend of his, he said. Forestock was wary of the new person at first, hissing and screeching at him when he walked through the doors, their introduction was rocky.

Glitch sat down, twiddling his (newly re-acquired) fingers together and glancing up at Megatron nervously. He’d never been in Megatron’s home before. He never thought he’d get this far. Megatron sat a glass of highgrade in front of him. They chatted for awhile, Forestock never left his corner of safety. Glitch finally decided to address the elephant in the room.

“Ehm, pardon me if this is rude sir,” Glitch started, dipping his head in the direction of Forestock. “Who is that?”

Megatron raised an optic ridge, beckoning Forestock closer. He did come, very slowly, plating flared out defensively. “That would be Forestock. A rifle I adopted. He’s...a bit strange. Not accustomed to Cybertronian culture. Raised by wild cats, you see.” Forestock continued growling at Glitch, settling himself in Megatron’s lap. “He’s been through a lot of bad owners. Last one wanted him gone so bad he put him up for free. He’s been my passion project, I suppose.”

Glitch nodded, not taking his singular optic off the weird cat-mech in some sort of awe. Not saying a word out of fear of scaring him off, offending him, or prompting him to pounce.

“You two could be friends, I feel like.” Megatron said with a smile, only half-joking. “He’s not bad, just wary.”

Glitch had a hard time believing it at first, and then time went on.

The war began.

Megatron still kept Forestock by his side. Even through all of his changes in base, living space, time and availability, Forestock stayed. Eternally loyal to his saviour. The one who had given him a chance at a better life. Forestock couldn’t see himself anywhere else other than serving Megatron.

Glitch kept his visits to the warlord, and by extension to Forestock. When Megatron got too busy to visit as much as Glitch insisted on, the visits just turned into seeing Forestock. Forestock warmed up to him quickly. Glitch’s before seemingly useless information of knowing Primal Vernacular gave him a benefit. He enjoyed talking to Forestock. Forestock was self-preserving, straight forward and snarky. All things Glitch admired in him.

And of course, Glitch became Tarn, and his visits to Megatron increased again. He grew closer and closer to Forestock. Forestock always looked forward to his visits. Tarn would always take time out of business matters with Megatron to sit with Forestock. Read him poetry in a soothing tone, just generally chatting about their lives. Forestock would sprawl on his leg (and my was it a lot bigger now), purring and bumping his head against Tarn’s chin. Sometime’s he’d fall asleep in the now tank’s arms.

Then at one point in time, Tarn got Forestock alone. Megatron hadn’t been there, and Tarn had an important question to ask. Forestock was curled up on the ground sleeping. Though by this time he knew everything there was to know about Cybertronian culture, and unless he told you so you couldn’t guess he at one point didn’t, his cat behaviours remained, much like Megatron had guessed.

“Forestock.” Tarn said, kneeling on the floor. For once in his life, he felt shy. The rifle chirred, lifting his head up to look at Tarn through squinted optics. “I...have something to ask of you.”

Forestock wasn’t busy, he grunted, stretching his arms out in front of him, claws stretching to their full length before retracting when he sat up. _//Sure, what is it?//_

Tarn wasn’t expecting anything mushy in the greeting, he knew Forestock too well for that. “Has Megatron told you of Amica Endura?”

Well now Forestock was interested, finials pinned forward as if that’d help him hear better. _//Yeah, what about it?//_

Tarn hesitated again, nervously picking at his claws. “Well...you and I have been through a lot together, I feel like. And we know each other very well, and I was perhaps wondering if, you’d be willing to become my Amica?”

Forestock’s eyes blew wide, but it didn’t take him long to respond. Pressing himself forward against Tarn’s broad chest. _//Y’ even have to ask?//_

* * *

Despite all this, years past and two people were cycled through as “Vos” before Forestock was chosen for the position. When the second Vos turned out to be a spy, and he was properly dealt with, Megatron was more wary on who he would let into his elite team.

Tarn was ever at the ready. “Have you considered Forestock? We’ve both known him for so long, and he’s one of the most trustworthy people I can think of.”

So it was decided.

The faux faceplate Forestock had started to wear to cover up his facial deformities was modified into a torture mask to fit his new job description. He even had a hand in designing the weapon. Spikes and drills and all sorts of fun sharp bits.

Tarn smiled almost proudly as the little mech skittered into the main hall of the Peaceful Tyranny. Tarn himself standing on a small raised platform, the current four members standing around him loosely. Forestock clambered onto the platform, standing tall with his arms behind his back, exposing his spark chamber to his new leader.

Tarn gave some long speech that he had given many times before about loyalty to the cause, and the honor of Lord Megatron. “Today,” He finally started to conclude, “You are no longer Forestock. As that was your slave name,” (The slave name thing wasn’t standard, but he felt it was important for this case), “Today, you are Vos. One of the First Five to fall to our great leader. Though I’m sure you remember that fondly, you aided in that.” Tarn smiled a bit, remarking on Megatron having wielded Vos’s alt mode in that battle.

And then he took a less grand tone, this one more gentle as he got to his knees to do the more painful part of the ritue, mumbling in Primal Vernacular to reduce risk of the others hearing. _//This is going to hurt, but you’ll be okay. You can come to my hab afterwards if you need to.//_ Vos nodded in understanding, bracing himself. And with that, Tarn took his claws and ripped a chunk from Vos’s spark casing. Vos hissed, but stayed standing, squinting his eyes and bearing through the pain.

Tarn handed the chunk of metal off to Helex while he manually closed Vos’s chest plates. When it was handed back, it had been branded into the Decepticon insignia. The still hot metal was placed onto the center of Vos’s chest, naturally welding itself there.

“Welcome, Vos. We are so lucky to have you with us.”

* * *

Wasn’t so lucky when you were staring your saviour in the face with nothing but hatred and contempt in his blackened eyes, was it?

Vos was the first to panic once they had been trapped in. He was the smallest, he was the most easily targeted. His instincts came rushing back to him as he scrambled to break free. Protect himself, use your claws, run as fast as your legs will take you, just go, SAVE YOURSELF.

He wasn’t registering anything Megatron was saying at that point, his mind screaming orders at him to flee.  That is until he was forced to listen.

“No, not Vos anymore.”

Screeching and squirming as he was lifted into the air. As if he could break free of the invisible vice grip on his frame. He thought he heard Tarn screaming, but it was drowned out by the voice of Megatron.

“Starting with you...Forestock.”

White hot pain ripped his body to pieces. Energon and guts splaying as his mutilated corpse hit the ground.

And then.

That was it.

Much like a child building a block tower, Megatron had built Vos up to his fullest potential. Admiring in awe at how far he’d come.

And In the same sweep, destroyed him.

A life had been lived.


End file.
